February 3, 2019
I spent the first five years of my work as a pastor serving two country churches in southern Wisconsin. I presided at many weddings while I was there – probably 40 – 50. I would say all but a handful of them chose I Corinthians 13 as one of their readings. It wasn’t the only reading, because I would also ask them to choose a gospel reading. But even when I didn’t preach on it I, which was usually the case, I read this lesson.
It wasn’t easy for me. Sylvia and I had been married only five years by the time I was ordained. As I have said in a previous sermon, marriage was for me time of learning, “You’re not what I expected,” as the book title says. It was also a time of discovering, “I’m not what I expected,” which in some way is harder.
So, when I would read I Corinthians 13, I would feel judged. I would feel as though my attempts at love so far just didn’t measure up. As I would read, I would think, “My love is sometimes patient and occasionally kind. But it also can be jealous and boastful and arrogant and rude. Sometimes I insist on my own way.”
After some time, though, I thought, “This text is not about married love. It’s about God’s love for us.” In fact, ‘agape’ is the New Testament word for God’s love. God’s love is patient. God’s love is kind. So, when I would read this text, I would imagine the cross of Jesus before me. Sometimes I would even invite people to do the same. And that way of reading I Corinthians 13 felt truer for me.
With time, it occurred to me that this text not only wasn’t about married love. Nor was it exclusively about God’s love. It was about the gift of love in the spiritual community. All through the previous chapter, Paul has been talking about the variety of gifts that the Spirit gives. Because of the competition and division that these gifts are causing, Paul is telling the Corinthians that, since they all come from the Spirit, there is no hierarchy of gifts. All of the gifts of the Spirit are necessary for the upbuilding of the Christian community.
At last, I thought, “No, Chris, that’s not quite it either. Love is not a spiritual gift. It is far more than that. Love is a way.” And that’s what Paul says. At the very end of chapter 12, he says, “But strive for the greater gifts. And I will show you a still more excellent way.” Love is a way. Love is a path.
If love is a way, then what? Then everything else is secondary. There is nothing worth doing, unless it is done in love. There is nothing worth saying, unless is it said in love. There is nothing worth believing, unless it is believed in love.
Eugene Petersen, in “The Message,” renders the opening verses of the chapter in this way:
If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love,
I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.
If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries
and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,”
and it jumps, but don’t love, I am nothing.
If I give everything I own to the poor, and even go to the stake
to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere.
So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.
Love is of primary importance. Then, what is love, actually?
Paul gives us a long list of adjectives for love: love is kind, it not jealous or boastful or arrogant or rude… What is surprising to me, however, about this list is the very first one that Paul mentions – Love is patient.
As far as I know, “Love is patient,” is not the title of any top 40 song. Love may be deeper than the deepest ocean and higher than the highest mountain. But patient? If I were making a list, I would certainly include patience, but I very much doubt that I would place it at the top.
When you think about it, though, what is more loving than patience? When you set aside your own agenda, say, to be with a child, instead of saying, “I don’t have time for this; I have errands to run,” or, “Instead of playing with those toys, let’s read this book that will help you get ready for college.”
Patience says, “You set the agenda. Let’s do whatever you want to do. Right now, I am here for you. And I am here for you as long as you need me.” And this works not only with children, but also with parents and partners, lovers and friends.
The Greek word, “makrothumia,” is patience without reaction, especially in regard to people. The King James Version translates this verse, “Charity suffereth long.” Love is long-suffering, or, in a rendering that I like, love is long-tempered – long-tempered as opposed to short tempered.
Victor Frankl was a Swiss psychiatrist who wrote a very popular book in 1946, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” He was also a Holocaust survivor. In the Nazi concentration camps, he took note of the variety of behaviors among people that he observed. Even under the worst possible circumstances, he noticed there were some people who were able to live with joy and generosity. He summarized the basis for this difference in this way:
Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.
That space between stimulus and response is what I would call patience. It is a withholding of reaction, so that something new might arise. This makes it more possible, even in trying situations, when we don’t know how we can stand it anymore and we feel like we have to do something about this right now, that love can happen.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
Love exists for the benefit of others. But it also exists for our benefit. Love is more than a list of dos and don’ts. It is a way. It is a spiritual path. And in being a way, it also affects us. It has the power to transform us.
There is, on the one hand, our growth from childhood to adulthood. There were ways that we acted and talked and believed when we were younger that we have now given up. That’s the natural maturing process, a process that turns us away from ourselves toward other people.
But there is more. And this “more” is a mystery at which Paul can only hint.
Now we see in a mirror, dimly; then we will see face to face. Now I know only part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.
Whose face will we see? Whose face will see us? What will we know completely? Who already knows us completely?
Paul writes here in what scholars call, “the divine passive.” We understand that the actor is God. But that little word, “God,” cannot contain the greatness, the vastness, the wonder and the mystery that is the reality of God. So, sometimes it’s best left unsaid. Otherwise, we might fool ourselves into thinking that we really do understand, that we are in control. Still, the reality is there, love is there, drawing us on and reshaping us, evermore into the likeness of Jesus.
So, how do we do we live more fully in this still more excellent way? Where do we start?
I believe we start with ourselves. We start by becoming more patient with ourselves. We can show patience to others without being patience with ourselves, but it won’t last very long. We can’t sustain it.
Let me invite you to become comfortable in your pew. Feel your feet on the floor, your body in the pew. Focus for a moment on your out-breath. If you might be likely to fall asleep, you can try sitting up straight, or focusing on your in-breath.
Now bring to your imagination someone who has been patient with you. It might be your mother or your father, a grandparent or a dear friend, a teacher or a coach. It might be your spouse. It might even be God.
Maybe they showed patience to you as you were learning a new skill they were trying to teach you. Or maybe you were going through a rebellious phase in your life, but they did not criticize you or abandon you. Or maybe they sat with you as you raged at something you felt was wrong or wept over a deep grief you had experienced.
Whoever it is, bring them into your imagination. Recall what it felt like to have been the beneficiary of their patience. Remember it; feel it; hold it in your heart.
Now with that feeling, if you can, turn toward yourself. Think of something in you with which you have been frustrated of late. A habit you can’t quite quit, a judgment you continue to pronounce on yourself, or an intention you haven’t been able to maintain. Whatever it is, offer patience to yourself. Hold yourself without judgment. Create greater space around that frustration and see what happens. As you do so, continue to breath.
Finally, think of someone else with whom you have been impatient lately – your child, your spouse, your co-worker, your neighbor, even a stranger. Can you offer them patience? And what is that like?
If nothing seems to be happening, if you aren’t able to generate patience for yourself or anyone else, be patient with yourself. Be patient with me. I’ve never offered this kind of meditation before. It is simply an attempt – based on your own experience of patience – to locate it, to settle into it and appreciate it, and to employ it for the benefit of others.
I no longer feel guilty when I read I Corinthians 13. I’ve even told Sylvia that I want it read at my funeral. When I read it, I feel deeply touched by the power of love. I feel deeply motivated to practice love in any way I can. I feel deeply hopeful about where this path is heading.
Now we see in a mirror, dimly; then we will see face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
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